


Mismatch

by Gracefully



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Cajuns and their redheads, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracefully/pseuds/Gracefully
Summary: Eugene Roe meets Eugene Sledge. Both are looking for other people (a redhead and a Cajun, respectively).





	Mismatch

It had been precisely 276 days since Gene had last seen Babe, 186 days since the last phone call, 130 days since the last letter. Or, as other people called it, May 3rd. Gene didn't normally pay attention to such things as how many days it had been since he had spoken to someone, but his contact with Babe had come to a slow, unexpected halt, and Gene had worked himself up into a worry. 

Gene had always been good at worrying, particularly if he was worrying about someone he really cared about. During the war, Gene had worried about every single man in Easy Company at one point or another, but Babe always took top priority of Gene’s worrying. Every mortar hit made Gene pray that it wasn’t Babe’s foxhole that got hit, every bullet on the field could have been a bullet in Babe’s head. Gene wondered briefly how he didn't leave the war with a head of gray hair and a faulty heart. 

Gene worried that Babe was dead. That he had gotten into a fight, that he tried to break a fight up and ended up getting hurt, that he had gotten a stroke or a heart attack and had died because of it. Gene worried that Babe had gotten into a car accident, that he had signed up for the military again, that he had blown off his own goddamn head. As time set on, Gene’s worries became more and more irrational: a power line fell on Babe, Babe was kidnapped and sold into black-market slavery, Babe walked in on a deal he shouldn’t have seen and was taken by the mob, Babe had contracted a deadly flu and was in the hospital, etc. 

But above all, Gene worried that Babe was alive and well, that he had simply moved on from Gene, that he had no wish to continue their contact. No goodbye, no ‘end of the line’ type bullshit. Just plain, hard disinterest. Nothing, aside from the horrors of war, scared Gene more. Babe was the person Gene cared most about in life, and the thought of Babe not wanting anything to do with Gene made him feel a little sick to his stomach. 

One day, Gene was fixing the shingles on his mother’s roof. In her old age, she was unable to do the job herself, and so she enlisted the help of her handyman son. He had his shirt off and he was sweating under the Louisiana sun, big beads of sweat rolling down between his shoulder blades before they came to rest at his lower back. 

Movement caught his eye from the sidewalk. He glanced, and his heart stopped. A shock of bright red hair, red hair unlike any he had seen since saying goodbye to Babe at the station, greeted his eyes. It must have been at least 95 degrees and Gene was suddenly frozen. He watched the redhead move as if in slow motion; he pulled on his shirt and nearly fell of off the roof in his struggle to get to the ground before this man, this Babe was gone. 

An unfamiliar face, eyes startled wide in surprise as Gene fell to the ground at his feet greeted Gene’s eyes. This man was tall and lanky (like Babe) and a redhead with brown eyes (like Babe). When he spoke, however, the illusion was all shattered. His voice was lower and smoother and had a timbre that was unmistakably Southern. “Whoa, there.” he said, with a chuckle. “Are you okay?” he reached out a pale, thin hand (like Babe’s hands, Gene thought). After staring at it for a moment, Gene took it and was pulled to his feet. 

“Sorry to drop in like that, I, uh, thought you were someone else.” Gene said, brushing dirt off of his shirt and shuffling his feet a little bit. When he looked up, the redhead was giving him a hard, calculating stare.  

“War buddy?” the man asked. 

Gene went cold, but he shrugged and said “Somethin’ like that” 

Babe was so, so, much more than that to Gene. Those two words covered a tiny facet of the massive gemstone of what Babe was to Gene. 

“Now, where are my manners, I haven’t introduced myself.” the man said. He extended his hand again, this time to shake. “Eugene Sledge, K company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines.” 

Gene shook Sledge’s hand. “Eugene Roe, E Company, 506 Infantry Regiment, 2nd Battalion.” 

Sledge’s eyes lit up. “A paratrooper! I had no idea.” 

Gene changed the subject. “Are you looking for a war buddy too, Sledge?” 

Sledge’s eyes got dark and sad. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” 

“He live around here?” 

Sledge looked defeated. “I have no idea. I’m just looking, seeing if anyone has any leads as to where he lives. Or really any ties about him.” 

Gene moved towards the house. “Well, come inside, have a drink, I’ll see if I can help you.” 

They moved inside and Sledge sat at the dinner table. Gene washed his hands before bringing Sledge a glass of water. He sat across from him at the table. Sledge was watching him carefully. “You Cajun, Roe?” 

“Half,” Gene responded, wiping his brow with the corner of his shirt. “Why?” 

“The man I’m looking for,” and at that a new sort of strange light entered Sledge’s eyes, “he’s full blooded Cajun and fiery as they come.” 

“What’s his name?” Gene asked. 

“Shelton. Merriel Shelton, but we all called him Snafu.” Sledge leaned forward and pulled something out of his back pocket. It was a tiny, pocket-version bible. He opened it to a page that naturally fell open and pulled out a picture. He passed it to Gene. Gene took it and saw 3 men in their dress blues, posed and ready. He spotted Sledge clearly. Sledge wasn’t smiling at the camera, he was smiling at the shit-eating grin next to him. The other man had his arm around Sledge’s shoulder. He had his other arm around the 3rd man in the picture, but not in the same way that he had his arm around Sledge. 

Seeing that picture sent a jealous sort of twinge through Gene. “He the one in the middle?” he asked. Sledge made an affirmative noise. Gene inspected the pouty lips, the curl of dark hair, the soft eyes. He passed the picture back. “I don’t know of him, I’m sorry.” 

Sledge shrugged, looking obviously disappointed. “I knew it was a long shot.” There was silence for a long moment. He asked, somewhat tentatively, “And you? Who are you looking for?” 

Red hair and brown eyes and a wise-cracking smile. ‘What’s with the Heffron bullshit’ and throwing gloves to the ground and too much aggression for such a slight frame. A strong Philly accent and an attitude that could withstand almost anything. A guy who was willing to die for his country and his friends. 

“His name is Babe Hef--I mean Edward Heffron, and he’s from South Philly.” the words were familiar and caused a thrill of joy to course through Gene’s body. They also caused a fair amount of pain. Sometimes, the two were hard to distinguish. 

“Is he a redhead?” Sledge asked with a smile. Gene nodded, a painful lump forming in his throat. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.” They had both finished their water. Sledge stood to go. 

“Yeah, me too.” Gene said. He walked Sledge to the door. They shook hands. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Sledge said. 

“Anytime,” Gene said. There was silence for a moment. 

“I hope you find your red head,” Sledge said, quietly. In his tone he implied that he understood, that the relationships they had forged could be punishable by death. 

“And I hope you find your Cajun,” Gene said, and in his tone he implied that he knew what Sledge meant and how both of their ventures were shots in the dark. 

And just like that, a redhead and a Cajun parted ways, both looking other people. 

**Author's Note:**

> it feels nice to get this done. This idea has been banging around in my brain for a while.


End file.
